The Clique of Gold, Emile Gaboriau [if you liked this book .txt] 📗

“You say, commandant?” asked the good sailor.

“Nothing of interest to you. Go on.”

“Well, after that—but there is nothing more to tell, except that I heard nothing more. The lieutenant remained in the same position till I came to light the lamp; then he ordered me to make him tack ship, and to let down the screen over the lamp. I did so. He gave out two or three big sighs, and then goodnight, and nothing more. He was asleep as you see him now.”

“And how did his eyes look when he fell asleep?”

“Quite calm and bright.”

The doctor looked like a man to whom something has happened which is utterly inexplicable to him, and said in a low voice,—

“He will pull through, I am sure now. I said there could not be another miracle; and here it is!”

Then turning to Lefloch, he asked,—

“You know where I am staying?”

“Yes, commandant.”

“If your officer wakes up in the night, you will send for me at once.”

“Yes, commandant.”

But Daniel did not wake up; and he had hardly opened his eyes on the next morning, about eight o’clock, when the chief surgeon entered his room. At the first glance at his patient, he exclaimed,—

“I am sure our imprudence yesterday will have no bad effects!”

Daniel said nothing; but, after the old surgeon had carefully examined him, he began,—

“Now, doctor, one question, a single one: in how many days will I be able to get up and take ship?”

“Ah! my dear lieutenant, there is time enough to talk about that.”

“No, doctor, no! I must have an answer. Fix a time, and I shall have the fortitude to wait; but uncertainty will kill me. Yes, I shall manage to wait, although I suffer like”—

The surgeon was evidently deeply touched.

“I know what you suffer, my poor Champcey,” he said; “I read that letter which came much nearer killing you than Crochard’s ball. I think in a month you will be able to sail.”

“A month!” said Daniel in a tone as if he had said an age. And after a pause he added,—

“That is not all, doctor: I want to ask you for the letters which I could not read yesterday.”

“What? You would—But that would be too great an imprudence.”

“No, doctor, don’t trouble yourself. The blow has fallen. If I did not lose my mind yesterday, that shows that my reason can stand the most terrible trial. I have, God be thanked, all my energy. I know I must live, if I want to save Henrietta,—to avenge her, if I should come too late. That thought, you may rest assured, will keep me alive.”

The surgeon hesitated no longer: the next moment Daniel opened the other two letters from Henrietta. One, very long, was only a repetition of the first he had read. The other consisted only of a few lines:—

“M. de Brevan has just left me. When the man told me mockingly that I need not count upon your return, and cast an atrocious look at me, I understood. Daniel, that man wants your life; and he has hired assassins. For my sake, if not for your own, I beseech you be careful. Take care, be watchful; think that you are the only friend, the sole hope here below, of your Henrietta.”

Now it was truly seen that Daniel had not presumed too much on his strength and his courage. Not a muscle in his face changed; his eye remained straight and clear; and he said in an accent of coldest, bitterest irony,—

“Look at this, doctor. Here is the explanation of the strange ill luck that has pursued me ever since I left France.”

At a glance the doctor read Henrietta’s warning, which came, alas! so much too late.

“You ought to remember this, also, that M. de Brevan could not foresee that the assassin he had hired would be caught.”

This was an unexpected revelation; and Daniel was all attention.

“What?” he said. “The man who fired at me has been arrested?”

Lefloch was unable to restrain himself at this juncture, and replied,—

“I should say so, lieutenant, and by my hand, before his gun had cooled off.”

The doctor did not wait for the questions which he read in the eyes of his patient. He said at once,—

“It is as Lefloch says, my dear lieutenant; and, if you have not been told anything about it, it was because the slightest excitement would become fatal. Yesterday’s experience has only proved that too clearly. Yes, the assassin is in jail.”

“And his account is made up,” growled the sailor.

But Daniel shrugged his shoulders, and said,—

“I do not want him punished, any more than the ball which hit me. That wretched creature is a mere tool. But, doctor, you know who are the real guilty ones.”

“And justice shall be done, I swear!” broke in the old surgeon, who looked upon the cause of his patient with as much interest as if it were his own. “Our lucky star has sent us a lawyer who is no trifler, and who, if I am not very much mistaken, would like very much to leave Saigon with a loud blast of trumpets.”

He remained buried in thought for a while, watching his patient out of the corner of his eye, and then said suddenly,—

“Now I think of it, why could you not see the lawyer? He is all anxiety to examine you. Consider, lieutenant, do you feel strong enough to see him?”

“Let him come,” cried Daniel, “let him come! Pray, doctor, go for him at once!”

“I shall do my best, my dear Champcey. I will go at once, and leave you to finish your correspondence.”

He left the room with these words; and Daniel turned to the letters, which were still lying on his bed. There were seven of them,—four from the Countess Sarah, and three from Maxime. But what could they tell him now? What did he care for the falsehoods and the calumnies they contained? He ran over them, however.

Faithful to her system, Sarah wrote volumes; and from line to line, in some way or other, her real or feigned love for Daniel broke forth more freely, and no longer was veiled and hidden under timid reserve and long-winded paraphrases. She gave herself up, whether her prudence had forsaken her, or whether she felt quite sure that her